


Sleep On, And We Will Meet Again

by Six_Piece_Chicken_McNobody



Series: Windmills & Windowsills [7]
Category: Kingdom Hearts
Genre: M/M, Scala ad Caelum (Kingdom Hearts)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-02
Updated: 2019-06-02
Packaged: 2020-04-06 18:03:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19067815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Six_Piece_Chicken_McNobody/pseuds/Six_Piece_Chicken_McNobody
Summary: They may have walked side by side, but now they go on back to back.





	Sleep On, And We Will Meet Again

Xehanort doesn’t remember whose idea it was to sit by the waterfront today, but it was a bad one. Eraqus hasn’t said a word since, “Sure,” when Xehanort asked if their current location—a small, painted bench—was a good place to sit. If Xehanort were to guess, he’d say his friend is preoccupied with thoughts of tomorrow. Maybe it was his idea, then, to sit by the pier, in an attempt to brace himself for what’s to come.

 _Pier_. Xehanort has lived in Scala for seven years, and he’s referred to this strip of the town that juts out over the sea as a “pier” since he first arrived. That’s what it _would_ be, if it weren’t surrounded on all sides by a wrought iron fence. The birthplace of worlds, and nowhere to berth. It makes sense, he supposes. It’s not like he’s ever seen a ship here.

That’s one of the few things he misses from the islands. Ships would cross the horizon at a slow crawl, and sometimes, when the sun was in just the right spot, they’d even create mirages. He still remembers the first time he saw one as a boy. He’d been standing on the beach, his bare feet burning in the sand, a hot summer wind tousling his hair, and his stomach cold at the sight of a far-off ship and its ghostly doppelgänger, suspended upside-down above the mast.

Xehanort had held his breath. That second ship wobbled and shimmered like it was caught in a heat wave. It couldn’t be real, but he swore he could hear the billow and snap of its sails, and the stretch of its ropes, swollen with saltwater. In some spectral, wonderful way, it beckoned to him. And then, in a blink of sunlight on the ocean, it was gone.

Xehanort practically flew home, anxious to tell his mother what he’d seen, hysterically desperate for her to believe that he wasn’t making things up this time. She not only believed him, but also gave him a name for the mysterious apparition. “Fata Morgana,” she said as she handed him a cup of water and made him sit down to catch his breath. “It’s a type of mirage.”

“A mirage?”

She went on to explain about refraction and atmospheric conditions, but most of it went over Xehanort’s head with ease. He grasped the basic concept, however—that it was a trick of the light, and nothing more. “So…it _wasn’t_ a ghost ship?”

“No,” his mother said sternly as she went back to fixing the kitchen drain. “It was an optical illusion. Your father sees them all the time out on his boat. They’re perfectly normal and perfectly harmless.” Xehanort was displeased to hear this, and once he got her to explain what an optical illusion was, he was outright pouting. He finished his water and dropped the cup in the sink instead of handing it to his mother, to express his outrage that the world had failed to provide him with the stuff of legends. But his mother caught his eye and added in a hushed, conspiratorial tone, “Ghost ships only appear at night.”

Even when Xehanort was old enough to know that ghost ships were simply folk tales, the Fata Morganas continued to captivate him. There was something otherworldly about them, as if two planes of existence had fused together and a vessel from another place, maybe even another time, had crossed over, just for a moment. Just to remind Xehanort that every horizon was only a veil, and there was more to see beyond it if he could get close enough to tear it down.

He’s getting distracted, letting his thoughts run away into the distant past, and he knows why. He and Eraqus are scheduled to leave Scala seven days after receiving their Marks of Mastery, and today is the sixth.

They were surprised to have passed their exam at first, not because they felt unprepared or unworthy, but because they couldn’t believe that their long-term goal was suddenly something they had already accomplished, with proof they could hold in their hands. When it finally sank in, they indulged in a quick celebration. Eraqus, in his exuberance, wrapped his arm around Xehanort’s shoulders and shook him back and forth, repeating, “ _We did it, I can’t believe it, we did it!_ ” The proper reaction would have been to bow, express humble gratitude to the Masters who judged the exam, and await further instruction with dignity and poise. But Eraqus was the teachers’ pet, and there was very little he couldn’t get away with.

They wandered the halls after they were dismissed, unable to figure out where to go or what to do next. They grabbed and shoved each other as they walked, babbling incoherently about how well they had done. But within hours, thoughts of the future—of what the Mark of Mastery truly _meant_ for each of them—crept back in.

Eraqus knew he would be sent to the Land of Departure by the week’s end. He’d visited before, to familiarize himself with the world, but it was time for him to officially become a steward. He was eager to discuss it, sharing everything he knew about the position while Xehanort listened and smiled and watched fondly as Eraqus repeatedly swept his hair out of his face, a little tic he’d developed whenever he got caught up in his own excitement.

When Eraqus extended an invitation for Xehanort to accompany him, to be his guest while he learned the ropes and got his bearings, Xehanort’s smile faded. Eraqus continued to beam at him, believing that Xehanort was too overwhelmed by the possibility of living in Departure with him to answer right away. But Xehanort looked down uncomfortably, and when Eraqus realized that his refusal to answer _was_ his answer, his smile faded, too.

For the next two days, they barely spoke. Eraqus ruminated on a deep sense of betrayal and embarrassment, and Xehanort kicked himself for casting a pall over what Eraqus had spent his entire life looking forward to. The worst part was that he couldn’t figure out how to explain to Eraqus why he’d done it. The reason he’d wanted to become a Keyblade Master in the first place was to be granted access to the Lanes Between, to go where he pleased and ensure that he was never tethered to a single world again.

So for Eraqus to suggest, as soon as they were appointed Masters, that Xehanort should simply settle for Departure? Start laying down roots in another world, after all the hard and deliberate work he had put into uprooting himself? Xehanort knew it was a warm and generous offer, but his gut told him it was a trap. And no matter how rational or how in love he was, a gut instinct was a difficult thing to silence.

It was also a difficult thing to explain without sounding insulting. How could he make Eraqus understand that rejecting his invitation wasn’t meant to be a rejection at all, that it wasn’t about what Xehanort wanted to avoid, but what he wanted to seek? How could he describe the itch in his very soul, one that could only be soothed by exploration and discovery? How could he explain the way he marveled at those uncanny “ghost ships” as a child, always on the lookout for them to appear, and always wishing he could follow them when they melted out of sight over the horizon? The older and more knowledgeable islanders had told him it was impossible, but he’d done it. He alone had sailed over the edge of the world and crossed the borders to a new one. How could he stop now?

Luckily, Eraqus spared him the trouble of explaining himself. He approached Xehanort early on the third day, trying not to look him in the eyes as if that would somehow hide the bags under his own. Xehanort felt torn in half to see him so tired and heartbroken, though he couldn’t imagine he looked much better. He still didn’t know what to say, so he began with, “I’m sorry,” and Eraqus stepped forward and wrapped his arms around his neck, shaking his head.

“It’s okay,” he said while Xehanort hugged him tightly. “I don’t want you to apologize. I understand.”

A trio of courageous lies, spoken by someone who didn’t understand at all and only had a few days left to come to terms with it.

They agreed not to discuss it again until they absolutely had to. It was perhaps not the wisest decision, but they had only been Masters for less than a week. They didn’t have to be wise yet. And as they sit together on the so-called “pier,” listening to the water below and watching the gondolas above, their Marks of Mastery are the last thing they want to think about. The topic is a conversational storm cloud under whose shadow they refuse to sit.

Still, Eraqus is being evasive. The lack of conversation is fine by Xehanort, but the lack of touching is another matter. Eraqus won’t even look at him. With a silent sigh, Xehanort decides it’s time to rip the bandage off and see what kind of wound it’s been hiding. “Hey. What’s up?”

Eraqus stares out at the sea a little longer, then blinks suddenly and glances at Xehanort. It’s as if their timelines have fallen out of sync by a few seconds. “Huh?”

“You seem…distracted,” Xehanort says, his tone casual but his words carefully chosen. “Something on your mind?”

He expects Eraqus to insist that it’s nothing and return his attention to the water, leaving Xehanort to wonder why he bothered to ask. Eraqus does look away, but he says, “Just thinking about a dream I had a few nights ago.”

“…yeah? About me?”

Eraqus shrugs and nods, and Xehanort drops the conceited tone, accepting that it won’t lighten the mood as much as he wants it to. “What happened in it?”

“Nothing, really. It wasn’t a dream where anything happened. All I remember are a few vivid details, and…the overall impression, I guess.”

“Ah…one of those.” Xehanort picks at the flaking paint on the bench, then curses at himself when a speck of blue gets lodged under his fingernail. “Was it a nice one, at least?”

Eraqus tucks his hair behind his ear. “We were outside—somewhere grassy, with hills. The dream started with us already standing there, but I know we’d been walking for a while. I just remember everything was so colorful, but simple. Blue sky, white clouds, green grass. It felt like a gentle place. After a few minutes, you reached out, took my hand, and kissed my cheek.”

Xehanort smiles. “Sounds pretty nice to me.”

Eraqus doesn’t smile back. He gazes at the sea again, letting the sound of the tide mollify him. “It felt like you were saying good-bye.”

He thought he would sound more choked up, which is why he had put off talking about it for so long. But he just sounds wistful, and full of calm, sad acceptance. It’s remarkable how a dream that he barely recalls can seem realer than a memory. He felt every detail: the slant of sunlight, the warmth of Xehanort’s hand in his, the pressure of lips.

He can feel it even now, as Xehanort slips his hand under Eraqus’s. He turns his palm up and intertwines their fingers—nothing like in the dream. Eraqus squeezes his hand gratefully, and he isn’t surprised when Xehanort’s next move is to lean over and kiss his cheek.

It starts off light, a barely-there sensation, but Xehanort presses closer, and Eraqus tilts his head away to compensate. Xehanort keeps moving in, kissing his cheek with a comical amount of firmness and threatening to topple them both over as he leans fully against Eraqus. It isn’t until he feels Eraqus smile that he finally pulls away and lets him sit upright again. “And how did that feel?” he asks while Eraqus rubs his cheek.

“ _Aggressively_ comforting,” is Eraqus’s dry response.

Xehanort rests his arm on Eraqus’s shoulders. “Good.” He doesn’t offer any reassurances such as “you don’t need to worry” or “I’m not going anywhere,” which would be both untrue and—even worse—trite. He doesn’t even tell Eraqus that he loves him. He hasn’t said it since the first time, and Eraqus hasn’t said it, either, at least not in words. Xehanort doesn’t particularly want or need him to. He hadn’t said it to hear it back; he said it to make it known, after years of puzzling over it, privately untangling the feelings inside himself before daring to let them run their course.

It might not be the most commonly advised way to handle this sort of thing. But as they sit together and watch the sun set on their final night in Scala, staining the water red and orange and gold, Eraqus leans back against Xehanort and holds his hand, keeping his arm snug around him, and Xehanort can’t deny that things have worked out about as well as they possibly could have.

When the sun goes down and the lights come on, they leave the waterside and take a walk through town. They thought their days (and nights) of studying were behind them, but as they pass through the streets, they realize they have one more last-minute cram session to go. They try to memorize the sun-bleached buildings, the hanging banners, the mosaic tiles laid seemingly at random in the stones. Every gate, every rooftop, the shape and color of every windmill.

They take a gondola the rest of the way to the tower, enjoying the skyward ride in the cable cars while they still have access to them. Once inside, they pay a visit to all the significant places they can think of, with the exception of the most significant one. The last time they went to the training hall had been on a clear and sunny afternoon. They sat on the windowsill and played half a game of chess before getting bored, declaring it a tie, and pushing the board aside to lazily make out for half an hour. A combination of sunshine, a warm breeze, and their own exhaustion resulted in an impromptu nap, and they woke up forty-five minutes later, slumped against each other and wincing at their stiff necks.

It’s a mundane, meaningless memory of their favorite place, and that’s exactly how they choose to keep it.

When it’s finally late enough to turn in, they go to Eraqus’s room. Xehanort has spent more nights there than he has in his own room lately, and he sees no reason to change that now. They stay up for a while, trying to make the most of their dwindling time together and enjoy each other as much as possible. Afterward, they gaze out the window and watch the moon rise. Eraqus uses Xehanort’s shoulder as a pillow while Xehanort plays with his hair, wrapping spirals of inky black around his fingers only to unravel them and comb them into place again. Once the moon passes out of sight at the top of the window, Xehanort kisses Eraqus’s cheek and says, with no small amount of reluctance, that he needs to get some sleep. Eraqus nods, but before Xehanort can move, he asks, “Will you stay?”

Xehanort pauses. He wasn’t planning to go back to his room; he wasn’t even planning to leave the bed. But Eraqus had asked as if Xehanort were already on his way out the door. “For tonight?”

It’s the wrong response. Eraqus doesn’t move, wracked with the tension that comes from holding back sadness and anxiety. “Yeah,” he says, and then carefully repeats, “will you stay?”

Xehanort pulls him closer and presses his lips to the top of Eraqus’s head. “Of course,” he murmurs into his hair, and it’s as much of a relief for him to say as it is for Eraqus to hear. Even if it’s only a short-term promise to stay by his side, Xehanort is glad to make a promise that he knows he can fulfill.

* * *

Xehanort wakes up just before sunrise. His arm is draped over Eraqus’s waist, still weighed down by sleep.

He’s always been an early riser, and lying in bed after he’s woken up agitates him. Nothing can soothe him once that restlessness takes hold. Nothing can convince him that staying in bed is a more worthwhile use of his time than getting up and doing literally anything else.

On a normal day, that is. Today, Xehanort’s limbs still want to move, and his back still wants to stretch, and he’s all too aware of the growing light in the sky. But Eraqus is sound asleep beside him, his hair a mess, his face peaceful, and his heart and mind untroubled by thoughts of the future.

He’s a heavy sleeper. Xehanort knows from experience that he could slip out of bed, get dressed, and walk out the door without the slightest toss or turn from Eraqus. He could go back to his room, take a shower, and start preparing for arguably the biggest day of his life.

But the day will happen whether he’s prepared or not. So Xehanort settles in again, runs his fingertips softly up and down Eraqus’s back, and stays.

* * *

When Eraqus finally wakes up, he looks surprised to see Xehanort, as if he’s forgotten the previous night. Xehanort is careful, wanting their last morning together to have as little tension as possible, but Eraqus seems fine—not just on the surface, but truly, genuinely okay. He all but shoos Xehanort out the door before he’s even gotten his shirt on, listing out loud all the things he still needs to pack and the shower he needs to take. And after a mercifully brief first-thing-in-the-morning kiss, Xehanort leaves Eraqus to all his last-minute chores and goes to his own room to do the same.

Contrary to how they’ve imagined this day, they spend most of their morning apart. Xehanort accepts some final words of advice from his favorite instructors, and he has one more meeting with the senior Master, who had bequeathed No Name to him after his exam. There aren’t many people he feels the need to share a personal good-bye with, but that gives him enough time to make the few good-byes he does share feel meaningful.

Eraqus, on the other hand, insists on giving a farewell to as many people as he can, even if it means running them down in the hallway for a thirty-second conversation. A few of his former classmates tease him—in good humor, and followed by fairly emotional parting words of their own—but Eraqus grew up in Scala. Some of the instructors he so desperately tracks down may have only had him for one class, years ago, but they had essentially raised him since early childhood. He isn’t just saying good-bye to teachers or a school, but to his home and family.

And it’s up to him to make sure the good-byes get said. Once he leaves the tower, there will be no crowd of well-wishers to see him off. The step he’s about to take is a personal journey, and per tradition, he takes that step alone.

Well. Almost alone. When Eraqus says all the farewells he can handle, he gathers his things and heads down to the waterfront, where Xehanort is waiting. He’s gazing at the horizon, but he turns away from it and smiles at Eraqus as he approaches. “Wow,” he says. “Look at you.”

“Yeah?” Eraqus glances down at himself. “How do I look, exactly?”

Xehanort hikes his single duffel bag higher on his shoulder and takes one of Eraqus’s bags for him. “Like the most beautiful Master Departure’s ever seen.” Eraqus rolls his eyes in a pathetic attempt to hide how easily comments like that still fluster him, and Xehanort grins. “Now,” he says, spreading his arms, “tell me how _I_ look.”

Eraqus gives him a once-over. “Like a tourist.”

“Perfect,” Xehanort laughs. “Sounds like we’re both off to a great start.”

They continue to keep the conversation light. Xehanort teases Eraqus about how he’s going to turn into one of those stuffy old Masters who sits in a chair all day, and Eraqus teases Xehanort about how he’ll probably get lost before he reaches his first world and will have to come back to Scala for directions. Just two old friends taking a walk down to the water, trying to banter their way out of a situation that’s closing in faster with every step. By the time they reach the “pier,” they can’t ignore it any longer. “Well…” Xehanort puts Eraqus’s bag down and adjusts his own. “This is it.”

“Yeah.” Eraqus puts the bag in his hand down as well, rather than pick the other one up. “Are you ready?”

Xehanort laughs again. “I’d better be.”

Eraqus smiles a little, and they stand there for just a moment, one push and pull of the tide, before stepping forward into each other’s arms. Neither one of them cries, impressively, but Xehanort rocks them from side to side in a gentle, soothing motion anyway, like a boat on the sea.

They cling as if they’re trying to shield each other from the very futures they’ve been striving toward. When Eraqus finally speaks, his words are muffled by the front of Xehanort’s jacket. “Can’t hear you,” Xehanort says, his voice already more strained than he would have liked. Eraqus takes a deep breath before lifting his head a few inches.

“I said: I’m conflicted.”

“…about…?” Xehanort says, his heart leaping against his better judgment. He would never ask Eraqus to come with him, not the way Eraqus had asked him to stay. But no matter how realistic he tries to be, part of him hopes that Eraqus will be the one to abandon his life’s goal, or just put it on hold for a while. Leave Departure on the back burner and join Xehanort on his travels for a year, a month—even a single week. It’s a hope beyond hope, one of Xehanort’s most self-indulgent and preposterous fantasies, and for that reason, he just can’t seem to snuff it out.

And of course, it has nothing to do with what Eraqus ends up saying. “I want to hold onto you for as long as I can.”

Xehanort hugs him tighter. “Then do it. I’m not gonna tell you to stop.”

Eraqus shakes his head, refusing to look up. “I want to hold on for as long as I can,” he repeats, “but I don’t want letting go of you to be the last thing I do before you leave.”

Xehanort lets Eraqus lay his head on his chest again as he takes those words in, then sighs quietly. “Just because I’m going, it doesn’t mean I’m _leaving_. I’ll come back.” Eraqus nods, trying to believe it, and Xehanort rubs his back gently. “We might not see each other for a while. There might be more space between us. We might be going in different directions. But I’ll be with you every step of the way.”

“How?”

Eraqus knows the answer, but he wants nothing more than to hear it. Xehanort pushes him away, just far enough to poke his chest and softly say, “Here, idiot.”

Eraqus laughs abruptly, almost opening the floodgates after all. “Oh, I’m gonna miss that.”

“What? Being insulted?”

“Yeah. Everyone’s gonna be, like, _respecting_ me and _deferring_ to me. How am I supposed to deal with that?”

Xehanort shrugs. “You’re smart. You’ll figure it out.” When Eraqus only gives him a distracted nod, Xehanort ducks down a bit to catch his eye. “Hey. You all right?”

Eraqus looks at him and nods again, this time more decisively. They share another embrace, and Eraqus pushes his hands under Xehanort’s duffel bag to hold onto the back of his jacket. “Be careful out there.”

“I will. I’m not doing anything that hundreds of Keyblade Masters haven’t done before me.” Xehanort strokes Eraqus’s hair and adds, “Take care of yourself, okay?”

“I will.”

“Promise?”

Eraqus leans up and kisses his cheek, feeling the warmth of the sun on Xehanort’s skin and wondering which sun will shine on him next. “Promise,” he says. He barely has a chance to move back before Xehanort meets him for a full kiss, and Eraqus returns it readily, melting into his arms again. They kiss slowly and deeply, trying to make it mean everything, and for some reason, the only thought that finds its way into Eraqus’s brain is how grateful he is that it’s not part of Scala’s customs to be seen off by a crowd of teachers and peers.

When they finally separate, it’s with purpose and certainty. Eraqus steps back so Xehanort can don his armor and summon No Name, which he tries to do as matter-of-factly as possible, though he can’t resist a bit of flair. He glances at Eraqus and sees none of the jealousy that he expected ever since he inherited the ancient Keyblade. Even if Eraqus hadn’t already been bequeathed Master’s Defender, his pride in Xehanort would cancel out any envy he might have felt. Xehanort shakes his head fondly as he adjusts his gloves. Leave it to Eraqus to make virtues out of sins.

Meanwhile, Eraqus stares at Xehanort with neither pride nor envy, but a sinking, sickening feeling in his stomach. Seeing him stand here, at the farthest edge of town—the place no one goes unless they’re preparing to _leave_ —his Keyblade and armor an elegant match, matte black with shining metal features, just like the chess pieces he always chooses—always _chose_ , because who knows when they’ll be able to play chess again, if ever—

It rushes over Eraqus as swift and unrelenting as a wave. This is nothing to Xehanort. He’s done it before, turned his back on his home and his family and set sail for an unknown destination. And he never expressed a desire to return. _He can’t wait to leave_ , says a voice in Eraqus’s head that sounds upsettingly like his own. _This isn’t a dream. You’re leaving home, and he’s leaving you. You’re about to lose everything_.

Faster than he can think, Eraqus reaches out and drags Xehanort into another hug, armor and all. Xehanort stumbles, still caught off guard by surprise attacks, but he regains his footing quickly and places his free hand on Eraqus’s back. He laughs gently, accompanied by a tinny echo inside his helmet. “You said you were okay.”

“I lied.” Eraqus tries to hug him tighter, but Xehanort pushes him away so he can hit the dial on his arm. The armor disappears, and in an instant, Eraqus goes from panicked to embarrassed. “C’mon, don’t do that. I’m fine,” he says with tears streaming down his face. Xehanort lets go of No Name to pull Eraqus toward him again, and the Keyblade clatters on the ground, leaving white nicks in the stone before it fades.

Eraqus wraps his arms so tightly around Xehanort’s neck that he worries he’ll hurt him, but Xehanort hugs him just as hard. He brings his hand up the back of Eraqus’s hair, weaving his fingers through the strands that never make it into his ponytail. He kisses the side of Eraqus’s head a few times before he has to stop and bury his face in Eraqus’s neck, his entire body stiff with silent crying. Eraqus cries with audible sniffling, an occasional hiccup here and there, but it’s not enough to keep him from speaking.

“ _Please_ be careful,” he says again, and beneath the feelings of betrayal and grief is nothing but deep and very real fear. “Come back soon to check in, okay? I know you want to see everything, but the universe isn’t going anywhere. You can do this a little at a time.”

Xehanort wants to say something confident and reassuring, but he just nods without lifting his head. When it’s clear he won’t respond, Eraqus continues. “I’m going to miss you so much.”

Xehanort holds him tighter and nods again, this time hiding his face further in Eraqus’s neck and shoulder. Eraqus gives him a moment, comforting Xehanort by scratching his fingers through his hair. “That doesn’t count,” he says quietly. “You have to say it, too.”

Xehanort’s shoulders shake, both from laughing and crying. He lifts his head and wipes his eyes, then holds Eraqus’s face gently in his hands and kisses him.

It isn’t their best kiss. It tastes like tears, and Eraqus breaks down again in the middle of it, and Xehanort vastly overestimates how long he can last before he needs to take a breath. He keeps Eraqus’s face cradled in his hands after he pulls away, and he bows his head, touching their foreheads together. “I already miss you.”

Eraqus starts to cry again, and Xehanort brushes some of the tears away with his thumbs, letting the rest fall while Eraqus tries to compose himself. “You’d better—” He takes a deep breath, and Xehanort waits patiently, still stroking his face in calm repetition. “You’d better not—find a chess player better than me out there.”

“If I do, I’ll bring them to Departure so you can kick their ass.”

Eraqus laughs, but it doesn’t last, and he looks Xehanort in the eye as his smile fades. He lays one hand over Xehanort’s, running his thumb over his knuckles. “You promise you’ll come back?”

“I promise,” Xehanort says. “Someone has to make sure you’re not slacking off, right?” Eraqus leans in to give him a soft kiss, and when he pulls away, Xehanort has a more serious demeanor. “I know you probably don’t believe me, but I can’t wait to visit. I want to see what you can do in a place like Departure.” He chews the inside of his lip. “It…suits you. And I know you’re gonna be great.” He closes his eyes and presses their foreheads together a little more firmly. “I’m so proud of you, Eraqus.”

This time, he lets go when Eraqus starts to cry. He runs his fingers through Eraqus’s hair while Eraqus wraps his arms around Xehanort’s waist and lays his head on his chest. He could bury his face in it again, if he wants, but he turns his head to the side so he can breathe more easily, and so there’s no mistaking it when he says, “I love you.”

Xehanort’s hand stills for a moment, the same amount of time that Eraqus can feel him holding his breath. Then he strokes Eraqus’s hair again and exhales, kissing the top of his head. “I love you back,” he murmurs. “And I’m never going to leave you.”

It’s exactly the sort of lofty promise they need, and they spend what remains of their morning standing by the water, wrapped up in each other. When it’s finally time to let go, Eraqus forces himself not to start a fresh round of tears. He tries to think of it like one of those formal dances, the kind with built-in separations. They might drift away from each other, but they always come back sooner or later, and the reunion is all the sweeter for having spent that time apart.

As Xehanort summons his Keyblade and dons his armor once more, Eraqus tries not to think about how Xehanort never quite got the hang of those dances, how he so rarely followed the proper steps designed to return him to Eraqus at the end of the song. By choice or by chance, he always seemed to find himself flung to some faraway part of the dance floor, unsure how he got there but unbothered by the outcome.

Xehanort transforms No Name into his glider, then pauses so Eraqus can remove his helmet and give him one more kiss while he’s in his armor. Despite all they’ve dealt with over the past week, Xehanort has the audacity to grin. He lets Eraqus set the helmet back on his head, centering it with a gentle pat, and after one last, lingering look, Xehanort takes a deep breath, steps onto his glider, and goes.

Eraqus watches until he’s out of sight, and then a little longer, sparing a few minutes for the final tears. When he decides he’s had enough and accepts that the clear sky is going to remain clear, he rubs his eyes roughly, picks up his bags, and finishes walking to the end of the pier. This is how they were always going to do it, he reminds himself. Embarking on their journeys at the same time, from the same place, but on different trajectories. A living Fata Morgana: one a strong, clear ship on a charted path, and the other an elusive double, vanishing as mysteriously as he arrived.

Eraqus steps into the portal to Departure, setting sail from the only harbor he’s ever known, and starts counting the days until his other half returns.

**Author's Note:**

> You know you're invested in a ship when you write the first draft of a fic by hand while listening to instrumental versions of My Heart Will Go On...


End file.
